Ode to Oakajee by Stan Maley 1/6/2008
Rain promised its mystery to you.
Left like a shy girl.
Cloudy coquette spread its desire across the Wheatfield’s.
Teased the parched green grass’s dry tears.
Oakajee, today we love your rolling surf of sea on white beaches,
sharp sandy rise to timeless dunes.
Watch how your river works its time on shore and sea,
feeds the ocean bed as in eons past, creates a fragile place,
unique creatures evolve into this magic scene, pristine.
A wandering place of an ancient race that touched not your grace,
they held you to their bosom like a song.
A new man looks over you for better things in life for his and his and theirs.
A port to load long, long ships of ore.
To build concrete, steel, tarmac, industry, railways, roads.
With power he forces the gentle slopes beneath his iron tread,
turns colours, delicate forms to slush and dust beneath his feet.
Tentacles of his growth spread like a black octopus across your land and sea.
Time clocks up its endless march as Clouds drift by again in silent sky and see your coast,
how changed it is?
They look and move away, no tears fall from their eyes.
Mountains have gone down to sea in ships to leave the dry land a barren place,
and Spirits moan beneath the layers of sand
Poem, Birth of Christ……………………………………by Stan Maley
Essence spilt in waves of scent drove down to mass of mass,
forms moved connected apart suspended.
Microscopic shapes of shapes squeezed, pushed,
oozed sequence to sequence pumped in rhythm of rhythm.
Seven colours flashed in white light masking nights black
setting stage.
Rose and fell, rose and fell a gaseous space of void’s thin
veneer hiding,
form and recognition behind the hideous what.
Speed stopped speed in unmoving velocity reached without
time its home.
Arose there movement, breath of pumping gas, a shape of
pinkish folds
appeared from chambers of old into a hazy little place
filled of grace, a humble being.
Trillions of time instantly glowed into a star, blinked.
And eye of man could see.
*************
Hands
narled as two twisted stumps
they mirate across the table
like a pair of stagering dungeness crabs,
adrift at the end of her arms
their dance to the mug of cold coffee,
not quick
thier spasm taking
up
in bits
and
starts
missing, realighning
then sending one hooked thumb
jabbing forward
pushed onward from
the shoulder? the elbow?
latching on to the handle
like a rusty clamp
and dragging the cup back
as though pulling a net full of heavy treasure
through wet sand
I remember those hands
those hands that held mine
as though children could be six forever
those hands
Dressed up in a bright green coat
gracing the frilled cuffs
of her gold satin dress
her Las Vegas dress
her pearl and diamon ring
pinning in earings
primping startched red curls
piled high a top her head
like a lackerd crown
that wouldn't move for a week
or a hurricane
such beauty
such beauty...
Let's dance across the living room mom,
I'll wear your high-healed shoes
I'll hold on to those hands
as you twirl me around
and we'll twirl
and we'll twirl
I'll close my eyes
and we'll twirl
Morgana Braveraven
Victoria, BC, Canada
*************************
My Land
Bloody rain came late in June,
waiting, what else to do?
Maybe more will come?
My farm waits for me.
Yesterday I left the gate, broke.
Looked back just once or twice!
Years we worked, me and me mate.
Days, months, life’s time gone.
Black Butts, Grass Trees, gravel ridge.
Still there, still with my mark on them.
My soul and spirit joined this land.
Got mixed in with the dirt and sand.
Gone I have, sent away by banks.
But somewhere in this mystery
connects to Black Butts, Grass Tree and gravel ridge
they belong to me, I understand how
the black man feels about his land.
The bones of past wanderer’s lie beneath the sand.
Their voice speak to him with whispers
of shapes and dreams, rivers and trees.
The next plain, Spinifex, sandy dune
plays to us both its everlasting tune.
Poem...A Walk
Bitter Steps walking back,
Down memories lane that time has led.
Remember Brother John or was it Jack?
Neck blood congealed a funny red, dead in bed.
And cries of horror from the Mother’s gasp,
Caught at the door to which she was led.
Years of younger life walked past,
Back to the womb when I was born.
Of movement and what we did,
Because, or was it just another dawn?
Remember the war and uncle Syd?
Wooden leg on chair, listen to him say.
Kids we were, in this walk, up we grew.
Young men, drunk, footy, girls in the steps we take.
Don’t say those words you do not mean!
Cherish youth, look after her you foolish man.
Or was that me that I have seen?
To words and deeds this walk to ban?
How can I walk down the past?
And take away this bitter pill?
Love is life’s paced outcast.
Body mind, swallows its fill.
To love? This walk becomes unreal,
Fear clutches me with every sigh.
To my knees I drop and kneel
Alongside the silent chance gone bye.
To love, to feel, to cry aloud again.
To take the arms rushed to my mine.
Help me! I watch and cannot stop the pain.
My head swims like one besot with wine.
Walk on my friend, life has had its day.
Your journey will not change a thing.
Look straight ahead, watch what you say.
Remember? To life today, its love you bring.
Murder I suspect.
Albert was a paralysed diabetic, a
person of irregular bowel actions, plus his personality forced other carers to
reject him. Not Heidi, she took Albert to her own home and wheeled him into the
special room. The lift took them to a lower room.
He was the fourth invalid taken
into the house this week.
The carers association were so
pleased to have found Heidi; she was taking all the difficult clients and never
sought assistance, always consistent with her written reports of their
condition. Mrs Priddle, the overseer, thought that Heidi must have been sent to
her a benevolent God.
Marshall Johnston lived across the
way from Heidi. He was very often mowing his lawn or trimming something or
other, his eyes roved constantly up and down the street and made note of any
activities. This is when he saw Heidi with Albert.
It was another two days before the
unmarked car pulled up in front of Heidi’s place. Two tall men in white shirts,
black pants and wearing dark sunglasses, stepped out and walked briskly up to
Heidi’s front door.
Marshall managed to crouch behind
a very healthy aspidistra and had a clear view of proceedings. Heidi emerged
kicking and screaming in the firm grip of the two men.
As the car pulled away, Marshall
walked out onto the street and sauntered about as was his custom. But this day
his sauntering took him a little further South of Heidi’s house. There he paused
and carefully checked out the street, it was still as empty as a Poet’s AGM.
He walked briskly to the rear of
Heidi’s house and then moved across the back wall with his hands rubbing the
bricks on either side of his body. He had seen cat burglars do that in the Pink
Panther series. He moved so stealthily that Jack, the Daniel dog never stirred
from his snoozing.
He reached the door and slowly
turned the nob, the door opened! He tip toed into the semi darkness.
Faint glint of sunlight caught the
sharp polished steel dagger before it plunged deeply into the base of his neck.
Blood squirted like water from a fire hose as he swayed and crashed to the
floor.
Little Frieda, Heidi’s daughter,
jumped down from off the chair behind the door, blood had splattered over her
pretty white tunic. She smiled at Mr Marshall and waited patiently for him to
die, the savage convulsions stilled. Then she rolled the body over and over into
the lift. As they started to descend, a deep eerie growl emitted from the depths
of the building.
“When Mummy comes home from her
Baptism today, she will be so pleased I have found some more food for Hercules”
she said to herself, as she sat on the chest of the bloodstained carcass of Mr
Marshall.
Stan Maley 12th of
November 2006
Death…..a Poem by Stanley Maley September 2006-09-18
The end of the world, near as death
And as far away as my last breath.
Youth’s beauty strolled along the way
Of life not measuring her stay.
No thought of doom, black clouds, rain
But sunshine, laughter, freedom from pain.
The man, aging, growing stiff, growing fat
Walked head down, looked for a chair, sat.
Darkness stood not far, not far at all.
Like a stranger that came to life’s hall.
A fondness for his place on earth
The man shrunk from the flower of his birth.
Desperate, now afraid, not showing grief
Struggling, holding an insane belief.
Of potions and pills and marvellous stuff
To prolong his body, his mind enough.
To live, for what? For long? Forever? Today?
To live forever, what a grand thought, a way.
A way? Live forever these bones of mine?
This flesh of mine, to jeer at the old man time.
A youth came by and began to say, why worry
Old man. Look, see, I care not to hurry.
I think not of passing on
I am young and beautiful, that is my song.
You. Live forever in that old frame?
You surely joke? What a shame.
The young walked on, left the old man
Bent and shuffling as only old men can.
A cloud blew by, white on blue of painted sky
A bird from green tree sang don’t die.
A wisp of breeze from ocean life,
A ray of light like a knife,
thrust its beam to the man’s old face
Eden promised a better place. The Turning Point
A short story
The turning point came on Tuesday evening, 5 pm the 9th of October.
Two weeks ago he first saw her step aboard the tram. Slim, elegant, dressed in a tight fitting black suit.
She walked passed him and he rose quickly.
"Want a seat" he stumbled. She looked at him silently, then without a word swung her body into the seat
he had offered and looked straight ahead.
Every day she boarded the tram at the same time. She walked past him and he nodded. Once her eyes glanced
at him, but that was all.
On Friday the tram was full, all the seats were taken and people were crushed together as they held on to
the straps. He was behind her when the tram lurched and threw him forward, pushing up against her. He felt
the outline of her body and his pulse raced. She turned with a sudden sharp look and then recognized him.
He tried a smile "Sorry" he mumbled; she smiled and looked straight into his eyes.
His legs felt as though they were full of jelly and he had trouble holding himself up.
"Are you alright" she spoke and it sounded to him like the voice of an angel.
"Yes, yes I'm fine" he managed amidst the push and shove of the crowded tram. It stopped and she pushed her
way to the exit and was gone.
All weekend he thought of her. Tossed and rolled in his bed.
Monday he was waiting, would have ridden the tram all day to catch a glance of her.
Suddenly she appeared from behind him.
The tram was only part full this morning and she sat next to him, gracefully easing herself into the seat.
"Good morning" she said.
He turned a bright red and muttered something." Are you alright?" she asked, looking at him.
"Yes, thank you." They exchanged a few words and it was time for her to leave.
He walked home that night with excitement in his step.
Tuesday's tram was crowded, he muttered as he pushed and shoved his way to the front where she normally boarded.
Then there she was. He pushed close and she noticed him.
He cursed the closeness of the crowd and leant over towards her and whispered "hello"
She looked up suddenly at him "Oh Hello"
"Where do you work?" he managed in a half hiss, half whisper.
"My husband and I have a business in town" a quick answer came with a smile as the tram jerked to a halt.
"Goodbye." She said and was gone.
Poetry
by
Averil Davies
Catkins are the flowering sprays of the Hazel
bush for those
not familiar with our flora, they come very
early, at lambing
time, before other trees waken up or even
put leaves out!
As the wind shakes them they release clouds
of pale golden pollen.
Title; Catkins
Along field edges
Drape faded rags of February.
Wind-raked leaf-death,
Brittle hedge twigs.
Rib cages of the hills
Combing ice from winter's tail.
Too soon for Dog's Mercury,
No Primrose sherbet frills
Or nodding bells.
Still; hazel wands
Turgid with sap
Burst! Conjuror's fingers
In yellow gloves
Fat bell-pull tassels,
Concertina'd; then ripening
To stretch down
Shake yellow powder clouds
As we snap a few trophies
Of the year's rout
For jars in window sills.
Wind waggled catkins;
As children say,
Like lambs tails.
They have that comical
Dangling wild looseness
Tied by a thread
To the tongue
As they tug milk
From ewes in such desperate joy.
Spring smells like
Sweet milk-wet fleece
And all the damp warming hollows
Where pollen will stick
To all the budding stickiness.
Then...
The incredible roar
Of new growth.
Averil Davies 2001
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